Bittersweet Darkness
by b.madison
Summary: As Alex watches his life—what little was left of it—shatter into tiny pieces he must learn to trust a cryptic man with his well being, and more importantly, his sanity. On the run from people that he used to trust, how will Alex survive?


**Bittersweet Darkness**

Chapter 1: Perception

Tumbling in a downward spiral, Alex Rider has no one left. Labeled a traitor by his own people, with his friends dead, Alex has no one to turn to when things take a turn for the worst. Will he ever recover? Can he ever prove that he's telling the truth?

Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider. He belongs to the lucky Anthony Horowitz.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The pencil in Tom's hand slowly bounced up and down as he gazed out the window in a stupor. Next to him, Alex stared straight ahead at the clock. Mr. Williams was just finishing up the maths lesson and it was driving him nuts. He was sleep deprived from the homework load and starving. He was looking forward to heading home at the end of the day for a much deserved catnap and a big fat chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven. Jack had promised to bake some this morning. Admittedly they were the kind that were already shaped and even came on a disposable cookie sheet, but it was the thought that counted, and to Alex, they all tasted the same.

Alex wadded up a piece of lined paper and tossed it at Tom's head. The obnoxious tapping finally ceased. In the monotone the class had become so accustomed to, Mr. Williams announced that there was to be a large packet of work that the class was expected to complete by tomorrow. How Alex wished it were Friday. If it were, he wouldn't have to worry about doing homework, or anything else remotely productive for two whole days. He needed sleep. For the past month or so he had been working his butt of to catch up on what he had missed. He was looking forward to spring break. Jack had promised that they could spend the holiday on a cruise through the Greek Islands.

The minutes ticked by dreadfully slowly. Alex drifted in and out of consciousness and Tom returned to his annoying tapping habit, but Alex couldn't muster the energy to tell him to stop. When there were only five minutes left in the period, Alex hopped up, "Mr. Williams, Sir, may I be excused to the restroom?"

Mr. Williams looked around the classroom, as if searching for the person who had spoken, "Go ahead Andy." He had always called Alex Andy. Mr. Williams was new. Every other teacher in the school, even if they had never laid eyes on Alex knew who he was. Alex was one of the favorite gossip topics among the teachers. 'Why was he always missing?' was the question everyone wanted answered. The theories ranged from a drug problem, to prison, to an actual illness, to injuries received from the gang robberies he took part in. Personally Alex was quite fond of the last theory. It was so far fetched, it managed to make a serious situation slightly humorous.

Alex strolled sleepily down the long hallway that led to the boys restroom. Aside from the usual smattering of paper towels left on the floor, the room was devoid of anything aside from the stalls and sinks. He wet a paper towel with icy cold water and rubbed it across his face in a half hearted attempt to wake himself up. It didn't do much good. From inside the bathroom, Alex could hear the distant bell sounding the end of the period and the start of lunch time. The student immediately bolted to the dinning room. It was pizza today. Alex stayed in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, repeatedly splashing cold water across his face.

The water was doing little to jolt awake. He could hear the clamor of voices in the dining room. As Alex walked to the door, he heard a startling sound. Gunfire. Instinctively, Alex dropped to the ground and looked around. He listened for a moment and could tell it was coming from the dinning room. Jerked awake by the rush of adrenaline, he hopped as fast as he could over to the small high set window that led from the bathroom to the dinning hall. The dinning hall was a recent addition to the school, and the builders hadn't bothered to remove the window that had previously led to the outside.

Standing on top of a toilet, Alex was able to see the scene of mass hysteria and chaos in the dinning hall. Around twelve, tall well built men in black combat trousers and shirts carrying AK-47s with automatic pistols and knives strapped to their belts were shoving the terrified students into lines of ten. For a nauseating moment, Alex was reminded of a film on the holocaust his class had watched a year previously. The death squads would line up the Jews in lines and proceed to shoot them. Alex muffled a scream as three of the men shot each child standing at the front of the lines. "Now shut up!" One of them roared. "You are going to tell me where Alex Rider is or we will proceed to shoot every last one of you!" The children glanced at each other in sheer terror. Alex knew exactly what they were all thinking. If Alex Rider, pot dealer/juvenile delinquent/robber/gang member was involved in this, it had to be bad. In case the ten dead children weren't enough of a clue.

A few of the younger children and even some of the older ones fainted. None of the people around them caught them, they were too preoccupied staring at the terrifying weapons the men had brought into their school. Alex stood riveted where he was. What was he supposed to do? Jump out and say, "Here I am! Shoot me!" What good would that do anyone? These people would shoot everyone else anyway, just to tie up loose ends. He glanced at Tom for one long moment, somehow willing that his best friend would survive this. He knew that he wouldn't. Alex hoped that maybe, there was chance he would be able to get out of the school and get help, but realistically, he knew that he would most likely end up in the soon to be large heap of his classmates bodies, just as dead as the rest of them. That thought make him shake.

Without avail, he tried to clear his head, to think of a way to get himself, and the remainder of his schoolmates out of this alive. He couldn't come up with a single thing. The only possibility was for him to get out and run to MI6 for help. As much as he detested Alan Blunt, what else could he do? And at this point, he would be willing to live with the man if he could save everyone else. Slowly and carefully, Alex climbed off the toilet seat back onto the floor. He heard a fresh wave of gunfire and assumed that another ten of his schoolmates had just lost their lives.

Alex pressed his ear to the door outside of the bathroom. He knew that there were sure to be other gunmen going from room to room attempting to find him. It was only a matter of time before they found him. Straight across from the bathroom door, was a door that led to the rear of the school building. There was a park back there, with a small wooded area where he could easily lose any pursuers, hopefully.

Three deep breaths later, Alex pelted full sprint through both doors and out onto the lawn leading to the park. Behind him he could hear men following. The adrenaline coursing through his body, Alex ran as fast as he could towards the woods. Halfway across the small lawn, he heard gunfire behind him. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. If for any reason he turned around, he was dead.

With a last push, he reached the cover of the trees. He didn't stop running, he bolted across the park full speed and crashed through the thorny bushes on the other side onto the London street. He tried his best to blend in with the lunchtime crowd. He had to get to the Royal and General. If Blunt and Jones hadn't already heard about the event.

A sudden wave of nausea hit him and he ducked into an alleyway a few blocks away to empty the contents of his stomach. Breathing heavily, he slumped against the wall. Tears streamed freely down his face. It was all his fault his classmates were dead. Sobs wracked his exhausted body. The man chasing him would never be able to find him in the crowd. Peeking out from the alleyway, Alex didn't see him. He doubted that the man cared. In his experience, people like that were brainless muscle. They did what they were told and nothing more. His guess was that their instructions has consisted of, "Find Alex Rider, shoot anyone that gets in your way." He hadn't gotten in their way, at least not to their knowledge. They would realize soon enough after they searched the school that he wasn't there. By that point, he planned to be safely hidden.

There was no way Alex could go back to his house. They surely would have placed men around his home. Another wave of nausea hit him. He whispered quietly to himself in a choked whisper, "Jack." His heart beat faster and his breathing quickened. Must. Stay. Calm. He thought to himself. If he was ever going to get out of this in one piece, hopefully with the remainder of his schoolmates, he needed to keep a level head. Alex strode out of the alleyway. Suddenly, he shoved his right hand in his pocket searching for his cell phone. Pulling it out, he pressed a few buttons just to make sure it still worked. With his luck, it would have died or broken. As he headed toward the Royal and General he heard an explosion in the distance. Looking around hurriedly, he saw a tall column of black smoke rising from what used to be Brookland school. From the flames that ravaged the demolished building, Alex knew that no one inside survived. Every single one of his classmates, dead. As a small, insignificant consolation, Alex knew that the gunmen were also dead.

Suddenly, Alex started to run. Run away from the pile of rubble that used to be his school, toward the Royal and General. He never thought there would come a day when he thought that Alan Blunt's presence would be comforting, but Alex suspected that today would be that day.

On one of the higher floors of the Royal and General Bank, two of MI6's highest ranking officials sat face to face in a plush yet nondescript office. "Alan, we need to figure out what happened to Alex." Mrs. Jones said this as calmly as she could but her voice trembled slightly.

Her boss on the other hand, lost control completely for the first time. "We don't even know who's behind this!" He roared. He was unaccustomed to being so much in the dark. It was terrifying to him. It took Alan Blunt several deep breaths to steady himself. "Mrs. Jones, Alex is still alive. When he was shot and undergoing surgery to repair the damage I had them implant a small device in him. It would send out a different signal if he were dead."

Mrs. Jones perked up slightly, "Then where is he?"

Blunt looked her straight in the eyes, his steely demeanor returning, "We don't know. The signal isn't that precise, it was implanted purely for the purpose of monitoring Alex's vital stats. But one thing is for certain, we need to find him, one way or another."

Mrs. Jones strode quickly out of the room. No doubt she was on her way to bark at her underlings to hurry up finding Alex Rider. Little did she know that it would do her no good. Blunt's personal assistant already knew what had happened to Alex. He was currently standing in Alan Blunt's private elevator. That elevator was to be used only by Alan Blunt, unless it was a matter of utmost urgency and secrecy. This particular matter was indeed one of both. The man was as nondescript as many of the other agents Blunt kept close to him. That trait helped him to be able to come and go as he pleased in a variety of environments and have people forget his face the moment he passed out of their sight. In his pale hand—dry from the harsh London winter—he help a small DVD. He had received an urgent message from one of the staff employed to monitor specific cameras throughout the city. Rushing over there, he had expected to perhaps be told of finding a foreign operative roaming the London streets, or something of the sorts. Little did he expect to be given what he had. Immediately he had taken the disk, wiped the location where it was originally stored on the hard drive, verified that there were no other copies, and hurried straight to Alan Blunt's office.

Alan Blunt turned his head in the direction of the elevator when he heard the soft ping, announcing its arrival. Mathew Pastor—his personal assistant—stepped out. Though Alan Blunt was aging, his eyes were still just as sharp and he immediately spotted the disk in Mathew's hand. "What do you want? If it can't wait, leave, now."

Mathew's tone was precise and measured as he spoke, "Sir, someone down at the video data center paged me. They found this." He placed the small disc on Blunt's desk. Blunt looked at him expectantly. Realizing what Blunt wanted, Mathew pulled out his laptop and popped in the disc. It began playing immediately. The sharp image showed a one block area of a street. Mathew pressed a few keys and the screen split, showing a second piece of video. This was of Brookland School.

Mouth hanging open in slight horror Alan Blunt watched as Alex Rider pulled out a cell phone and pressed a few buttons and immediately afterward the frame on the right side of the screen showed Brookland school explode. The blast was huge, and after some of the dust had settled, all that was left was a flaming pile of twisted metal and charred wood. Blunt nodded to Mathew, "Leave the disc here and go. Now." His perfectly composed icy demeanor had returned.

As soon as the door was shut Alan Blunt reached for his phone, intending to call Mrs. Jones. His hand halfway there, he let it fall to the desk. He couldn't. He had known that Alex was most likely suffering from mild PTSD and Mrs. Jones had been telling him that the boy also most likely suffered from depression. This, however, was rash for anyone. Maybe Alex had been having problems at school from the long absences. He suddenly felt guilty. Every week he received a report on Alex, but lately, in the wake of some conflicts in the middle east, Alex had been pushed to the bottom of the pile. He knew what he had to do. Alan Blunt picked up the phone and dialed a number he had memorized long ago. On the other end a man picked up, though he said nothing. "Bring me Alex Rider."

There was a short pause before the man on the other end asked the required question, "Dead or alive?"

Hesitating for a moment, Blunt responded, "Either," and hung up the phone. He knew that was what he should say, it was the right thing. Alex was a traitor. He had blown up a building filled with schoolchildren. There was no other explanation for how he had walked so calmly down the street, in his school uniform and typed something into his cell phone moments before Brookland School had blown up so spectacularly. What was he supposed to do? He knew this would be the end of his career. Maybe if Alex was brought in dead it would be possible to salvage. He could toss the boy into the river and claim that he too died in the tragic explosion. It could be a gas leak or perhaps a kitchen fire gone bad. There would be a memorial service and press conference, all mentioning the tragic _accidental _loss of life that had occurred. In his hand he held what was most likely the only copy of the footage that showed Brookland school blowing up, there was no reason anyone ever had to see it. Maybe there was a chance that the fact that he had recruited a teenager and then that teenager had become a mass murderer would never be known to the few people that had the power to throw him out of his post. He had a limited number of years before retirement, he had only to keep the information until then, after which, all hell could break loose, it wouldn't matter. He could be off on some small little known island in the Caribbean daquiri in hand with a new life and a stretch of gloriously sunny years ahead of him. Yes, that did sound nice indeed.

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